


Maw

by PaxVobis



Series: Hits Collect [2]
Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Casual Relationship, Drunk Kissing, Established Relationship, Gross, Kissing, M/M, Minific, Non-Verbal, Request Meme, implied sex, passionate kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 01:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14032890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaxVobis/pseuds/PaxVobis
Summary: Nathan x Pickles, 8. Being unable to open their eyes for a few moments afterwards.





	Maw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheepyLion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheepyLion/gifts).



He's just raiding the pantry.  A midnight snack, you know, although more like 5 am, which is midnight on most of the band's body clocks.  No matter how many times he thinks it over afterwards, Nathan can't work out what's so erotic about that.  Just poking around the slabs of preserved meat, the hanging game, barrels - butts - of cooking wine, cheeses.  The cheese is a good option, actually, and when it happens, Nathan is standing over a wheel of Edam.

With his black nails digging into the red wax rind, Nathan tears a handful of cheese off of the wheel, brute strength.  The wax stretches but snaps.  And so he's standing there with a handful of cheese, staring into the dim pantry blankly and stroking the feathers of a dead pheasant hanging at head height absently, just shoving cheese straight into his mouth when it happens.  When Pickles appears.

Like a shadow falling across the doorway.  The man is so slight, if it weren't for his immediate recognition of the silhouette Nathan wouldn't even have noticed him.  As it is, he hears the word, "Nathan," spoken sloppily in that nasal, plaintive voice so particularly Pickles, and comes to from his daydreaming, hand stilled on the dead bird.

"Cheese," grunts Nathan muffled around a mouthful of Edam, the crumbs falling from his mouth and he holds up his handful to show Pickles.  The man is standing still in the gloom, his brow lowered so the light - what there is of it - falls over his domed, bald scalp to his pierced eyebrows.  His eyes gleam blackly in the warm hearth light that spills from the kitchen behind him.

He does not seem to care about the cheese, but he approaches anyway, his sneakers quiet on the flagstone floor.  Though he is certainly fucking hammered, his brain just totally cleared out by a night's worth of obliviating drinking and drug abuse, he walks relatively straight and with focus, like he's concentrating on how he does so.  Glances around the pantry between stares at Nathan.  Pickles rarely ever meets his gaze, and so Nathan tolerates that.  He continues to eat the cheese.

When Pickles is close he looks up at the pheasant and indicates to it with a tip of his hand and a questioning hike of his brow.  Nathan shrugs.  There are many like it hanging in here.  As far as he's concerned it's just viking food, castle food, y'know.  It looks right.  He's never really thought about what the food looks like before it ends up on his plate; nor has Pickles apparently.  But it looks right, yeah.  Dead birds and salted hams and shit.  If it bothers Pickles that they come with feathers on them, Nathan doesn't understand why.

Pickles' short, crooked finger touches the tip of the pheasant's longest tail feather as he stands close to Nathan, looking up at the bird, feeling the soft feather shafts.  Apart from their breathing and Nathan's heavy chewing, the place is silent - so quiet you can hear the zip of the feather shafts against Pickles' nail.  He breathes out softly, like he's accepted something, and looks up at Nathan.

Haughty.  Like he has a bone to pick with him.  Nothing is said.  Nathan looks down at him, eats the cheese.

Pickles looks away.  Looks at his feet.  Looks at the barrels, the shelves.  Huffs to himself.  Nathan still masticating loudly like a cow on a cud, watching him with all the intelligence of cattle too.

Then Pickles looks up at him again, cocks his head in the dim light thrown from the fire beyond the doorway.  Bright black eyes, all the green lost in them in the darkness.  A slight smile to his chaffed lips.  He reeks of drug sweat and hard liquor.  And then next thing Nathan knows, Pickles has sprung upon him, his hands grasping his thick head in clammy, grabbing palms, and forced an open-mouthed kiss on him.

Pickles drags him down by the head, his blunt, chewed nails digging into the back of one of his ears, like he's hanging off Nathan's neck.  Nathan doesn't have to think about returning the kiss and he's glad it doesn't take thought or concentration, no need to keep it neat with Pickles.  This kinda shit, it's totally random.  Seemingly random.  Pickles with his hair up, bare foot in one of their maroon towel dressing gowns turning up at his door in the dead of night, far from his own wings, no explanation, just stepping straight inside and shutting the door on them both.  He could just slam the door on the guy but he lets him in anyway, and what follows is wordless and rough and they never talk about it, never explain it, but somehow both of them knew it the first time, knew what was needed.  And every time after.  And it leaves bruises, but for weeks afterwards it feels like the pressure's just been released, you know.  Like a steam latch.  Or a bleed.

The kiss is messy - teeth clicking - a thin tongue shoved up the back of his own, scraped over his molars.  Melted cheese and gummy saliva between them.  Nathan shoves his tongue into the scarred pits of Pickles' gums where his wisdom teeth have been pulled out, and it tastes like blood back there - inflamed gums, oozing blood as Nathan digs his tongue in there. He closes his eyes to suck Pickles in, mouth to mouth. Like he could suck the air from his rotten lungs.

And then it's over as fast as it was pushed on him. Pickles pulls off his mouth with a slurp of sticking lips and shoves him roughly back with surprising force, his back slamming against the pantry shelves. Nathan's eyes stay closed as he gathers himself. He can hear huge jars of preserves wobbling on the shelves - coming to rest as he catches his breath. A hand presses gently against the center of his chest, holding him there, then lifting. And when he opens his eyes, Pickles is gone.


End file.
